‘You hardly deserve forgiveness, you wicked, ungrateful girl,’ said my stepmother, sharply. She thought I was suffering, and she liked that. ‘But I don’t want to worry Sir Claus with such trivial matters. So get on with you back to your room and if ever you talk to me like that again, I’ll –’
But I did not wait to hear the rest. With a browbeaten duck of the head, I scuttled off downstairs, leaving her to look after me with a self-satisfied smile. She’d probably tell her daughters about my father’s supposed gift, which would mean that I’d have to put up with their sneers and slights. It was a small price to pay and my heart was light as I returned to my room. The twig was safe and, with it, the story of how I’d come to get it. I also didn’t have to hide the locket any more either.
But what was I supposed to do now? Safely back in my room, I looked at the twig. It looked so ordinary – just a hazel twig with a closed bud or two. But there must be something special about it . . . why else would Mama have told me to ask for it? Feeling a little silly, I held it tight, closed my eyes and made a wish. Nothing happened. The twig remained unchanged.
I had a look through Mama’s old books which I keep in my rickety old cupboard, hoping I might find a clue. I found one book about the lore of the woods, with a small section on an old legend which said that ‘at the right time and place, at new moon, the hazel may become touched with wild magic’. But there was not a word about how it worked. Of course, if it had had anything to do with moon-sister magic, it would have been forbidden knowledge and Mama would hardly have kept a book that might betray her own secret. In the end I gave up, put the twig under my pillow and went to bed, hoping that my mother would tell me what I was meant to do with it in another dream.
But though the same green-lit forest was in my dreams again that night, Mama was not. All I could see were the trees and the grass; all I could hear were the rustling leaves and the sighing wind. No guiding vision, no understanding to take back to the waking world. So when I woke early the next morning, everything was as it had been with the twig still under my pillow, unchanged.
No, wait . . . not quite unchanged. The buds had begun to unfurl; a frilly hem of green now showed at the edge of the buds. But the stem looked like it was withering, drying out, and suddenly I was filled with panic. Whatever else it might be, the hazel twig was a link to my mother. I couldn’t let it die!
I had to do something quickly. The kitchen was dark and quiet, but the bustle of the day would soon begin. I went outside and drew some water into a small jug that wouldn’t be missed. I put the twig in it and then hid it in the cupboard in my room. I’d think of how best to keep the twig alive more permanently later but for the moment it would have to do.
I was right about Grizelda telling my stepsisters about my locket. Later that day, I was summoned to bring up the mended clothes to Odette’s room and when I arrived I found both sisters there trying on new hats in front of the big mirror. When I came in they pretended not to see me at first, then Odette feigned a yelp of surprise.
‘Good heavens, Ashes! What do you mean by creeping in here like a thief?’
‘Your mending,’ I said curtly, dumping it on the bed.
‘Ooh, Babette, do you hear how she speaks to us?’
‘We should box her ears,’ said Babette distractedly, admiring herself in the mirror, the delicate lace and feather concoction she was trying on emphasising the pale beauty so like her mother’s. Odette is darker and shorter by comparison and altogether less striking, though she’s a long way from being ugly. If they’d been characters in one of those old tales Mama used to read to me when I was little, my stepmother and stepsisters’ real selves would show on their faces, twisting them into gargoyles. But most people consider Babette and Odette to be perfect models of young womanhood: pretty, gracious, elegant, nicely spoken. And charitable, for with their mother they occasionally grace the ‘deserving poor’ of the district with their perfumed presence, bearing baskets of leftover food and pious platitudes. News of these occasions is, of course, always discreetly released in plenty of time to the social correspondent of Ashberg’s most fashionable magazine so that a touching photograph or drawing can be published for the edification of readers.
Oh, I am turning into a veritable cat – an alley cat, that is – all claws and teeth and bitter heart. But that is better than becoming a mouse, which is what they’d like. I ignored Babette’s comment and turned to go when Odette called me back. ‘Show us what our dearest father so kindly gave you,’ she said silkily.
Her soft brown eyes were aglow with an unpleasant gleam. I knew what she intended by saying ‘our father’. She meant to suggest he was hers and Babette’s, and not mine at all, while at the same time reminding me of the fact I was indeed his disregarded daughter. Babette may look most like her mother but it is Odette who most shares her scheming, spiteful heart. Most of Babette’s thoughts revolve around herself, while Odette also thinks of others – only not in a nice way. And more than once she has caught me out with a clever shot, straight to the heart.
But this time it was I who had the advantage over her. I made a great show of reluctance over showing them the locket and pretended to be embarrassed as they commented on ‘how kind’, ‘how generous’ my father had been and ‘how well he’d chosen the gift, it’s just perfect for you’. It took a good deal for me to keep a still tongue but I managed it, knowing they’d tire of their game soon enough if I didn’t respond. As I was leaving, Odette took one final shot: ‘I suppose you might even wear it next week at the Prince’s ball.’ I stopped, stunned. ‘Oh dear, didn’t our father tell you?’ she added, her hand flying to her mouth in mock surprise.
‘Don’t be silly, of course she can’t go,’ said Babette petulantly. ‘She’s a nobody.’
‘That must be why our father didn’t say anything,’ said Odette in a hushed tone. ‘Me and my big mouth! I really must learn to control it.’
I looked at her and in that moment I resolved to do two things: first, I would no longer submit to this torture; and second, one day I would be revenged on the lot of them. Tonight, promise or no promise, I would pack my things and go.
But that night, as I finally staggered back to my room, exhausted after another long day, my resolve had dimmed and reality set in once again. I had hardly any money, aside from a few coins I’d managed to hoard. I could swipe some food from the kitchen, but once it ran out I would starve unless I found work, and the only work I knew was that of a servant. If I tried to get a job in any other big house in Ashberg, I’d be found out and brought back in disgrace – for though my stepmother would no doubt love to get rid of me, she would be furious if my flight brought gossip onto the family. Indeed, no matter where I went to in Ashberg, I would be likely to be found out. Which meant I’d have to head into the countryside, where there was the occasional large house with a staff of servants. But I’m a city girl through and through – I’ve only been to the country once and only for a few hours, and that was when I was little and had gone to stay with a cousin of Father’s in a large estate about an hour’s carriage ride from Ashberg; I could hardly go there. As to Mama’s home village, it was much further, more like two or three days away, deep in the forest lands. And though she talked about it sometimes, Mama had never gone back there. Even supposing I might get there, who knew what I’d find? I’d heard that the forest villages were practically empty these days. There would certainly be no work there as a servant, especially considering there were no big houses there as far as I knew. And I had no relatives that I knew about who might look after me.
Coward, I told myself bitterly, as I changed into my nightgown. You are a mouse indeed. Suddenly I heard a rustling, scratching sound coming from inside the cupboard. Talk of the devil and he shows his tail, Mama used to say. It sounded like there was a mouse in there, gnawing on my hazel twig!
I don’t mind mice, not usually. There was one friendly o
ne who kept coming to my room last year and who became a bit of a pet. I would feed it crumbs I’d kept back from my meals and it would eat them out of my hand. And then my stepmother found out. Horrified that I would ‘encourage vermin’, she ordered a trap be set, and every night I’d disable it. So, one day, she set out poison without telling anyone and, because I didn’t learn of it in time, the mouse died. It was my fault. If I’d not shown it kindness, the mouse might have escaped Grizelda’s notice – my foolish attachment had put it in greater danger than it would have been in. I would not make the same mistake twice.
I wanted this mouse gone. I did not want it to think it was safe here and I also didn’t want it to nibble on my hazel twig. Carefully, I crept to the cupboard. I slowly opened the door and stared in amazement, for it wasn’t a mouse that had made the sound at all!
Inside my cupboard was a tree – a miniature hazel tree no higher than the length of my hand from wrist to fingertips, but still a tree, perfect in every way. It grew out from the jug, its roots suspended in the water, its tiny but vigorous branches covered in beautiful soft, green leaves that were touched with living gold where the light from my candle fell on them. And as I stared, I saw a slight movement amongst the leaves, a rustle carried by a wind I couldn’t feel, a wind that came from – I knew not where.
I can hardly describe my feelings. To say I was astonished would be too slight; to say I was stunned would be too blunt. I felt awe fill me, and delight, and gladness. I felt as if my heart was unfurling like the hazel leaves that had unfurled from the bud. I got down on my knees and put my face close to the little tree, breathing in its scent of green. As I did so, I could hear my mother’s whisper and feel her fingers in my hair.
I don’t know how long I stayed there in a marvellous peace but after a while I whispered, ‘Hazel . . . Oh beautiful hazel, tell me what I must do.’
I waited but nothing happened. A single leaf detached itself from a branch and came floating down to my feet. I picked it up and held it in my hand. ‘Oh,’ I said, stroking the leaf, ‘you are soft as silk, light as a lace handkerchief!’
The words were no sooner out of my mouth than I no longer held a leaf in my hand – but an exquisite handkerchief of pale green silk and lace, with a curly ‘S’ embroidered in the corner. It was the most beautiful handkerchief I’d ever seen; finer by far than anything my stepsisters or stepmother had in their drawers, finer than anything I’d ever owned or had seen in the finest shops of Ashberg. Why, not even the Empress herself could have something as fine as this!
After the wonder came excitement. The tree’s magic was unlocked by my words as I touched the leaf! I could make others turn into anything I liked – anything I needed! Trembling with anticipation, I picked a leaf off the tree. I said, ‘Oh, you are warm as a coin in the purse, light as a banknote.’ I waited but nothing happened. I tried again – and to my dismay the leaf began to curl up, its edges blackening as though it were being burned, and in less time than it takes to write, it had crumbled to ash in my hand.
What had I done wrong? I picked another leaf and whispered, ‘You are green as spinach soup and good as fresh bread,’ but though my mouth watered at my own words, the leaf did not change. Instead, it melted into sludge, like algae in a pond. Not discouraged, I thought I’d try to conjure another handkerchief, so I picked one more leaf and repeated my first words. But this time, all I ended up with was a skeleton of a leaf that drifted off my hand like thistledown and disappeared as soon as it hit the floor.
‘Oh hazel tree,’ I said in despair, ‘what is it that I must do?’ As I spoke an image came into my head of the first leaf detaching itself from the branch before floating down to the floor at my feet. It wasn’t me who decided – it was the tree! And until it decided to loose another leaf, there was nothing I could do.
‘But I need you to help me now,’ I told the tree, ‘because I want to leave – I need to leave – you must understand . . .’ My appeal went unanswered.
‘What is the good of you then?’ I said sadly. ‘What good is a silly handkerchief to me when I need a lifeline? What is the good of granting me a wish I didn’t even realise I was making? You gave me hope and then took it away and now it is worse than ever.’ I closed the cupboard, unable to look at it. I left the handkerchief on the chair by my bed. It was an exquisite thing, and to glance at it made the gladness return just a little. Pretty as it was, though, it was of no use. It was a frivolous magic of no importance and it could not help me at all.
I woke the next morning to find the handkerchief had vanished and in its place lay a dry leaf. So the magic had only lasted a few hours . . . It was hardly a surprise, in my low state of mind. And my low state of health. For I felt sick. I had a bad headache and churning stomach. Indeed I felt so bad that it was all I could do to drag myself up and start my chores. But I knew that if I tried to get a sick day, it would be taken from any free time I was due – and in two days’ time, on Sunday afternoon, I was due for a half-day off, after, of course, going to church. Time which would be my own, which was precious to me. So I tried to carry on till, by the end of the evening, I could no longer take it and fainted while trying to finish the mopping. I was brought to by one of the cooks, who bathed my forehead in cold water and gave me a steaming bowl of chicken broth. For once Mrs Jager didn’t object because, as she told us, tomorrow was a big day and all hands were needed on deck. The Mayor of Ashberg, his wife and half the City Council were coming for dinner to discuss plans for the Prince’s ball. There would be massive preparations all day and on no account was I or anyone else to be sick tomorrow.
I must admit it made me feel a lot better – the chicken broth, I mean. It wasn’t only disappointment and despair that had made me sick but simple hunger. I’d had supper but it had been as meagre as always. The broth was thick and rich with bits of roast chicken and herbs; and with the slice of bread I had managed to swipe when no-one was looking, it made the finest meal I’d eaten in weeks – months, even.
Back in my room, I opened the cupboard door to see how the hazel tree was faring. It had grown a little more – it was now the length of half my forearm plus that of my hand, and the roots had now reached the bottom of the jug. If it kept growing at this rate, it would soon outgrow the jug and it would either die or be discovered. I had to put it somewhere else – somewhere it wouldn’t be noticed.
If you want to hide a tree, you plant it in a forest. I didn’t have ready access to a forest, but just beyond the kitchen’s garden wall at the back of the house was a patch of parkland that had been planted by one of Father’s ancestors long ago. Neglected and forgotten as of late, it was in rather a state with the gardeners concentrating on the showier flower gardens and vegetable beds. I headed out there in the dead of night, carrying the tree and a trowel, and soon had the hazel planted in amongst the long grass, near a little pond half-choked by weeds.
It looked as though it was meant to be there – at least, that’s what I hoped. I would try to visit it when I could but I’d have to be careful. I hoped it wouldn’t keep growing, drawing attention to itself and spreading the faint scent of magic that would eventually attract the Mancers, who would descend like wolves on the fold.
At that exact moment a wolf howled somewhere far away. I shivered. No, surely not a wolf. There were no wolves in the city; it must be a dog howling at the full moon. But I couldn’t help my skin prickling and my heart thumping as I raced back to the safety of my room with that long, sinister howl echoing in my ears.
I am standing in bright moonlight as I look up at the hazel tree. It is of only mild surprise to me that the tree has grown so much that the topmost branches are above my head. It must have been raining earlier because there are sparkles of raindrops on the leaves and along the branches and, in the pale light, they make the hazel glitter with an unearthly beauty. The little pond gleams too, the weeds have moved away from its surface and I can see myself and the hazel
reflected there beside the moon. It’s very still and I hold my breath, waiting.
There’s a whisper in the branches – a thread of sweet sound like a distant song. And all at once fluttering down from the tree come dozens – no, hundreds – of leaves, falling silent as snow over me, all over my hair, my face and my cold, bare feet.
No, they are not bare any more but shod in thin, soft slippers the colour of moonlight, while my nightdress has become the finest of lace petticoats overlaid with a glorious dress of green silk and silver brocade and an exquisite velvet cloak the colour of night. As I look wonderstruck into the mirrored surface of the pond, I see that around my neck is a glittering necklace of clear gems with the liquid shine of raindrops, a heart-shaped emerald pendant set in the middle. At my ears glint studs of emerald and silver, and on my right hand is a ring of pearl and white gold. My chestnut hair has a golden sheen and is done up with a silver net as fine and light as cobwebs, my hazel eyes sparkle with an emerald light and my lips are washed with the palest pink, like the faint beginnings of dawn. Happiness blooms in me like a flower and I laugh out loud. In the moonlight, all alone with a song in my heart, I begin to dance, remembering the steps Mama had taught me long ago.
Dance, my darling, dance, for dawn is coming, a whisper says deep in my heart, and everything has changed, and the dark night in which you have been living will be behind you for ever and you will be alone no longer. It is my mother’s voice and I know she speaks the truth, for my heart is full of a delight such as I have never known.
Suddenly there is a pebble in my path. I trip. I wake. For a moment I do not understand what has happened. There is no hazel, no moonlight. The night is black as pitch at my little window. I have no jewels, no beautiful dress, no silver slippers – only my old nightdress that’s so worn it is thin as a sheet of rice paper and about as warm. It was only a dream. I put my head in my hands and as I do so I feel something caught in my hair. I pull it out and stare at a leaf – a damp hazel leaf!
Moonlight and Ashes Page 3